Liu Shao Qing · Innocence

The flute falls across a thousand mountains, the dream returns to its native soil, beyond the sky the light is thinning out. Idly I pull at the scenery, willow withes and green vines, winding sorrow and joy together.

The poet's soul chases the drifting mist until it sinks, keeping watch as the flying jade departs, all of it. Turn after turn of the wheel, the blade's edge the same as ever, and yet it has become ordinary.